


Strip Off My Name

by Letterblade



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: BDSM, Cathartic Humiliation, Cock & Ball Torture, Collars, Crimson Flower Sylvain, Crossdressing, Cuter than the tags might imply, Established Relationship, F/M, Gags, Minor Edelgard von Hresvelg/Hubert von Vestra, Nipple Clamps
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-05
Updated: 2020-06-05
Packaged: 2021-03-04 03:33:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,221
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24556966
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Letterblade/pseuds/Letterblade
Summary: Do not make advances,Edelgard had told him.Tell anybody who expresses interest that you have an exclusive commitment. You may masturbate. But if you need companionship, or to be put in your place, come to me.The last turned out to be the hardest part for Sylvain. She'd been the one to start things until now. But taking the plunge is worth it.
Relationships: Sylvain Jose Gautier/Edelgard von Hresvelg
Comments: 16
Kudos: 114
Collections: FE3H Kink Meme





	Strip Off My Name

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a kinkmeme request for Edelgard/Sylvain D/s. "He believes in her cause, and also appreciates the fact that she can get him out of his head some." Went to finally polish this off for posting and discovered it was Sylvain's birthday, so happy birthday, Sylvain, get wrecked! Let's, uh, pretend I know how CBT works, dear god don't look to this for reference. :P

Sylvain paces the thick crimson carpet outside the Emperor’s personal office, fidgeting with the side seam of his pants.

It’s not like he _didn’t_ remember the orders he was under, personal and direct from the crown. _Do not make advances. Tell anybody who expresses interest that you have an exclusive commitment. You may masturbate. But if you need companionship, or to be put in your place, come to me._

He’d almost thought she was about to lock a chastity belt on him or something. But she didn’t. Just gave the order and trusted him to follow it, which…shit, he’s still reeling from that. He doesn’t exactly have _trust me_ written all over his handsome face, now does he?

The last part is the hard part, really. Coming to her. He paces up to the window. Down to the door. Her office is soundproofed—he doesn’t know if she’s in there, he doesn’t know if she’s talking with somebody else, or something-elsing with somebody else, and damn, he feels like a gangling idiot. Since when was _he_ afraid of approaching a girl?

Since the girl heard his entire fuck-crests speech, looked right through him with those pretty purple eyes, and promised to change his world.

Not really calculus, that.

The door clicks, and opens heavy and silent on its oiled hinges, and Hubert steps out, takes in the hallway in one quick super-spy swivel of his head, and closes the door behind him. “She is alone, Mr. Gautier. And I doubt she would find your presence unwelcome. There is no need to wear out the carpet.”

Sylvain laughs, scratching the back of his neck. “Just Sylvain is fine, you know. Don’t exactly have ties to _that_ family anymore, yeah?”

Hubert’s face does something very subtle and unexpected that might be a smile. “Please do notify me if you change your surname so that I may update my extensive blackmail file.”

Sylvain blinks. “I can do that?”

“I hardly see why not. It is well within my power to change a defector’s identity.” Hubert turns to bat-cape down the hall past him, and pauses for just a moment as they’re shoulder-to-shoulder. “Do understand that Lady Edelgard would not say something she did not intend to follow through with.”

“Of course. Yeah. I’ll just. Go ask your Emperor for kinky sex.”

“You may ring for help if she leaves you incapable of walking,” Hubert drawls, in approximately the same tone he would threaten Sylvain’s life as a greeting, and swooshes off around the corner. _Damn_ , one has to admire that man’s commitment to his aesthetic.

Sylvain gathers himself and drops the heavy eagle-claw knocker against the oak.

“Please come in,” calls the crisp voice through the speaking-tube.

He comes in.

Edelgard is at her vast imperial desk, quill in hand, paging through a thick sheaf of paper. She’s in a frilly white nightie under a heavy scarlet dressing-gown, and her hair is down, and it’s a look Sylvain’s had the divine privilege of seeing a few times before, but it never fails to entrance him. It’s not like she’s radiating any less of an aura of command than she does in the whole battle-dress and horns.

“Thank you for coming,” she says, with no fuss and a tiny flash of a smile. “I do need to finish examining this, but I’ll be happy to take some time with you after that.” She reaches into a drawer and pulls out a thick strap of blood-red leather. Slides it across the desk. His collar.

“Edelgard,” Sylvain starts.

“Do you need something specific, or something other than giving yourself to me for the evening?”

He rummages, swallows hard. “No. I don’t think so.”

She nods. For a moment, she looks up, and the spark in her eyes catches him off balance. “Please tell me if that changes. Otherwise, freshen up in the small room as you need, strip entirely naked, kneel in a place you find comfortable, and hold that until I’m ready to take you.” That, from her gesture, would be the collar. “As you wait, think of one thing you would like to ask of me tonight. I will need your silence in the meantime, but I will not leave you unattended.”

Sylvain feels his face heat a little like he’s a damn schoolboy again at the way she says _take you_ , crisp and clear and utterly matter-of-fact. No insinuations. No nonsense.

“You know,” she says, her voice softening, because this is a kindness, “that I will never have you fuck me, or come in me.”

“Yeah,” he says, ducking his head a little. “Yeah, I know. Sorry I’m—”

She shakes her head firmly. “You’re wound up. No need for apology. Go prepare yourself, and relax if you can. I’ll be glad to join you.”

He nods, mute, feeling some crawling thing in his gut ease up a little. He takes the collar with a soft clink of brass tack, suedey in his hands. “Thank you,” he manages, finally, and goes to get ready.

* * *

By the time Sylvain’s kneeling naked in thick carpet, collar cupped in both his fidgeting hands, skin prickling with the scratch of Edelgard’s quill on her paperwork, he’s at least starting to feel less scattered. Mostly because he has a thing to decide, and he’s actually—really fucking bad at that. What does he want? She probably knows how hard this is? He wonders that for a while, tries to tease out what the occasional glance she throws him means—well, there _is_ a handsome naked guy kneeling in her office, it might just be that. It’s good to be the Emperor.

What _does_ he want? He can come when he wanks, like it’s a lot more fun at her hands, but he’s not even sure that’s his biggest worry right now, and that’s a weird thought. He kind of wants something up his ass, as overwhelming as it is—he’s tidied himself up and everything—but statistically speaking that seems pretty likely. She likes the faces he makes that way, she’s said that and everything. And he keeps feeling like he’s crawling in his skin and being a disaster even though he’s not fucking around…

There’s the sizzle of melting wax and the stamp of a seal. Drawers opening and closing. A drink being poured, and the clink of it being set down. She passes to the small room herself, comes back in due time. He’s kept his eyes closed the whole time, he realizes dimly. Just kneeling there calm and ready. He knows what he wants, even if it had been an entire argument with himself.

“Sylvain,” she says, voice just a touch softer, and he opens his eyes to look up at the tiny ruffly length of her. “Have you decided?”

He nods. “I…I’d like—”

She holds up a delicate hand, then drops it to run down the side of his face and nudge his chin up. It’s small and cool and callused and strong enough to break the world, and he kisses her knuckle as it goes by. “Your collar first.”

“Y-yeah. Of course. Sorry.”

Her brow furrows just a little, like something’s troubling her, but she opens her palm, and he lays it in her hand. “Again. You need not apologize.”

He opens his mouth to say sorry again, closes it, feels like a _giant_ fucking idiot, and instead says, a little plaintive, “I don’t know why I’m like this.”

“Regardless of what you are like or why, you are mine for now,” she says comfortably. “Just as you are. You obey, unless you reach the limits of your own body, or we stop. No apology, no punishment.”

He nods, a little shaky. “Okay.”

She holds out the collar.

He bows his head into it, letting his arms fall to his sides. She buckles it snug, and folds her hand over it for a moment, and leans down to kiss the top of his head. He makes some faint noise he barely even recognizes.

“Now,” she says, straightening. “What will you ask of me?”

“I—well, funny you should ask, it’s kind of.” His eyes track to the floor and he feels heat gnawing in his gut. “Gag me. Please.”

“Oh,” she breathes. “Yes. I can see how that would be a relief for you right now.” She traces fingers over his lips, and then reaches down to give his collar a little tug, pull him to kneel up so she can kiss him, long and lingering. “I will for now. I’d also like your mouth on me, but even if you aren’t wearing a gag, don’t speak. You may nod, shake your head, and signal as necessary, of course. And don’t hold back your noises.” She pinches his bottom lip, mean and insistent, and some subliminal moan catches in his throat. “I do quite enjoy them. Do you understand?”

He gets halfway to speaking before she pinches him again. Already gagged. He nods, eyes wide, some strange sense of relief rolling through him.

“Stay here a little longer, then,” she says, patting his cheek. “I’m fetching things.”

He nods again. Stays. Almost sways on his knees, dizzy, as the haze of surrender drags him down. More drawers opening and closing. She comes back, this time with an armful that clinks softly, and drops most of it on a nearby ottoman, then approaches. “Let’s start with this, then. Since you asked so nicely. Open your mouth.”

He opens his mouth. Blindly obedient. It’s such a damn relief.

Padded leather fills his mouth, pressing down on his tongue. Then—straps over his face. He blinks his eyes open to realize she’s putting some sort of head harness on him, and she fusses with the buckles for a time, getting it perfectly in place and snug. He reels, falling deeper. Each little tug of a strap pulls his whole head, like he’s a bridled horse, and fuck if he knows why that’s hot, but it is. There’s even a strap under his chin, holding his jaw snug, and he moans a little as she tightens that.

“This piece unbuckles,” she says, patting the leather covering his mouth, covering the thick insert that would fuck up any attempt to speak even if he wanted to. “So it won’t be too hard to get to your mouth when I need it.” She’s smiling, a fond light in her eyes, and it lifts something in his chest to see it. “And I can buckle on a blindfold if I like.”

He nods a little, and she catches a dangling ring, holds his head motionless.

“That wasn’t a question,” she says, in that voice of absolute command, and he makes some muffled noise and goes still. “If I ask you a question, you may nod or shake your head. That is all. Do you understand?”

He reels, held snug by her hand on his bridle, and for the first time it’s almost scary, to be so voiceless—but goddess help him, it’s such a relief too.

She loosens her grip.

He nods.

“Good boy,” Edelgard says, ruffling the wild bits of hair that stick up between the straps.

Sylvain _whines_ , because that wasn’t a question, he’s not even allowed to shake his head, he can’t talk, he’s not allowed to _and_ his mouth is stuffed full, and there’s nothing he can do but take it like a punch to the stomach. He blinks rapidly. Can’t have his eyes watering. Not now, not just from _this_ , what kind of a wuss is he?

Edelgard clips a leash onto his collar.

His chest feels like it’s going to burst. He sags in relief. Chain runs through her fingers—she’s giving him play, indulgent. He doubles over, prostrating himself, to press his face into one of her pale little feet, steely tendons standing out under the skin. He would kiss them if he could. He has, for what felt like hours. His Emperor.

“My sweet knight,” Edelgard says, surprisingly fond, and gives just a gentle tug on his leash, letting him take his time. “Crawl after me. I’ve got a few more things to put on you.”

No need to nod. Crawling—right, he’s almost forgotten he has arms, that they aren’t already bound at her will. They’re already bound _to_ it. None of the mess in his head matters. Just—do as she says. Feel. Adore her. Be hers.

She settles in an armchair, and he settles at her feet, and she bundles his leash in her fist to keep him so very close, head on her knee as she pets his hair. He’s close enough to smell her—the faint, day-worn touch of perfume she wears, a bit of sweat, and the scent of growing arousal, and the last settles him, soothes him. She’s not just fussing over him. She’s hot for this, hot for whatever he looks like with those straps over his face.

“Thank you,” she says gravely. “For coming to me. I should have said so earlier, but perhaps it’s easier to say now, when you can’t fuss.” She pats his cheek. “I should have also realized that it might be difficult for you, and I’m proud that you did so regardless. Never think that you are nothing to me, nor unwelcome.” A touch of amusement creeps into her voice. “Especially now that you’ve learned to behave yourself around me.”

He can’t help a huff of a laugh, which turns into something muffled and weirdly dirty. It’s not like he _hasn’t_ given her some trademarked Sylvain Gautier Lines and nearly gotten axed for his troubles—damn, it was impossible not to, not with that pretty a girl who he wanted so desperately to burn his world down. He…hasn’t for a while, though, has he? Given her lines, been…himself.

“Give me your hands,” she says, and he does, simple as that, and kneels there tamely as she puts leather cuffs on him. They’re red, matching his collar. He wonders what color the head harness is—he hadn’t really gotten a good look when she’d put it on, and he can’t exactly see it now. She’d laughed softly when she first put the collar on him. What a pleasant coincidence for his hair to burn with imperial red. _Maybe I was born to serve you_ , he’d blurted, and she’d almost looked like she hadn’t wanted to axe him. Like she’d known it was actually pretty real.

Her hands wander. Waking up his skin with drags of her nails. Pinching his nipples. He drifts, making little noises around his gag, lost in her touch. “I’m going to give you one more choice tonight,” she says, and he manages to focus, make some vague hum of acknowledgement. “There’s something I’ve been daydreaming about doing to you for a while now. And I suspect it’s something you’d find quite mean. If you’re not up for it, I’ll have my fun in other ways, trust me in that. You do _not_ have to do this. Do you understand me?”

He nods, slowly, gathering himself. _Quite mean_ —well, now he’s scared and horny. Her definition of _nice_ was leaving bright red crop marks all down his shoulders and flanks, so what in hell counts as _mean_?

“You _may_ ,” she says, putting careful emphasis on the word, “put this on.”

 _This_ , unbundled from the ottoman and laid across her lap, is a ruffle of black and white. Puffy sleeves. A skirt that would _maybe_ deign to cover his ass, he’d guess from the length. The kind of dress no domestic would ever wear in real life, made for dirty theater or working girls playing a scene. Or bedroom games. The apron’s sewn on, for fuck’s sake. The silliest little maid dress.

He makes some choked little noise, feels his face heat. Reaches for it, a little fumbling, with one hand, just to run his fingers over the ruffled hem like he isn’t sure it’s real.

Edelgard, resplendent in her dressing gown, loops his leash possessively around her wrist and waits, patient, studying him with her cool lavender gaze. “Was I right in thinking it’s quite mean?” she asks, almost teasing.

He nods, a little frantic. The mere thought is making his belly squirm, his blood burn. Like he’s not sure he wants it, but he can’t look away. Almost like when he’d first sunk to his knees in front of this girl he could never resent, this girl who wants him for his anger and his wits and his loyalty, this girl who keeps setting terms that make him crawl to her for comfort instead of clawing off his skin.

“Sylvain,” she said carefully, cupping his cheek. Her palm is cool against his furiously flushed skin.

He leans against her hand for a moment. Then picks up the mess of thin fabric and turns it around in his hands, trying to line it up to get it on.

Her eyes light. And then she smiles, one of those rare unguarded little ones, almost girlish. “Would you, ah, like a hand?”

He nods, sheepish.

* * *

The skirt does, in fact, barely cover Sylvain’s ass. The top part is loose and frilly, and there’s a half-heartedly boned stretch about the waist that Edelgard laces up for him, snug enough that he notices it even if can hardly be called a corset. And it would be criminal, as she pointed out, to wear something like this without stockings, especially with his legs, so stockings there are, long and dark, coming up to the very tops of his thighs and clipped to a garter belt that she’d flipped up his skirt to put on. She’s relaxed, now that he’s drunk on surrender and into the thing, and she’s shed her dressing gown so she can flit about more easily and gather things, and smiling as she tugs the stockings into place.

Relaxed enough that when the ruffled sleeves of her nightgown slide up and bare the rough-scarred stripes that circle her wrists, she doesn’t even notice. Sylvain’s seen it all by now, of course, but she’s rarely not self-conscious about it, rarely takes off more than is necessary to enjoy herself with him. Nor is she self-conscious about crouching to fit the matching red leather ankle cuffs on him as he stands, so flushed from the frilly little thing she’s put him in that he feels like there’s a weight on his face and chest, crushing him with shame. He feels flattened. He’s swaying a little on his feet. Somehow it’s incredible.

Edelgard stands in a swirl of white ruffles and tugs on his leash, pulling his head down a little so she can suck a red mark onto his chest, just around his collarbone, then a second as he shakes. She grazes fingers over his face, studies him, asks if he needs to stop, and gets a frantic head-shake. She runs fingers under his chin, and they come away wet, and her smile is small and a touch dangerous.

“You look lovely.”

He whines, shakes his head with a shudder, and she catches his bridle again to hold him still. “Ssh, no fussing. You. Look. Lovely.” She tugs his leash. “Come. I can’t _not_ have you bent over my desk like this. All obedient and dressed up for me.”

She walks him over, and it’s maybe ten feet in nice carpet, and he isn’t even bound at all, and he still feels like an awkward gangle that doesn’t know where his elbows and knees are. He’s a top-tier cavalier, he thinks dimly. He’s drooling down his neck. He would have been a _Margrave_. He should pull that leash out of her delicate hand and gallop out the door. He makes some wretched noise at the thought.

She pushes him down on her desk, her Imperial desk with the double-headed eagle iron-inlaid in the wood under his bridled drooling face, and he feels like some layer of his skin is being ripped off and shed like a snake’s, like some phantom Margrave Gautier is crumpling to the floor as Edelgard runs her small cool hand along the tops of his stockings and parts his thighs.

His eyes are watering again. So soon. What a wuss. He’s pretty sure it’s in relief.

She doesn’t even need to flip his skirt up, the thing’s so short.

“Arms by your sides,” she says, like it’s a kindness, because he’s fidgeting aimlessly on the cool oak. “Hold onto the edge of the desk. And move your feet further apart.”

He obeys like it’s nothing, even as he trembles, and holds onto the carved edge like a lifeline. Cool air brushes his asshole, and he makes some faint helpless noise, and the phantom Margrave rolls in his carpeted grave.

“Flames, your _legs_ ,” Edelgard breathes, faint and earnest, and he’s heard plenty of girls say plenty of things about his face or his eyes or his hands or his hair or his height or his dick, but legs, has he heard legs? Has he heard legs from someone who sounded like she wanted to annex them into her imperial treasury and that was somehow the best thing instead of terrifying?

Nails along the top of his thigh. A spank, exploratory, and he makes a hungry little noise and squirm his ass at her, raw instinct. More spanks, strangely calming. Her other hand wandering over his back, tweaking at his ruffles, fluffing his hair, smoothing over the bare stretch of his temple between the straps. “You’re being so good for me,” she murmurs. “So very, very good for me.” He whines like she’s stabbing him with every word, and every stroke of her palm settles him again, and he blinks hard as the world swims. “So lovely. Loyal. Brave. Incredibly brave. Burning with purpose. Are you mine?”

He nods so hard that his tack bangs against the eagle on her desk. _Clack clack clack_.

“Good boy.” She pats his flank, drags nails over the warm spots from her spanking, and he quivers. Feels faintly wretched, coming to pieces so easily. She hasn’t even—well, there she is now, oiled finger circling his asshole, and his muffled whines echo in his ears. This always—this always takes him apart. He’s sensitive there, and he makes ridiculous noises, and being penetrated, being _used_ —

Her finger slides home. The occasional slap with her free hand as she works him open. He’s already in such a state from the dress, from giving up his _voice_ —he’s shattering in her hands, with only tight-buckled leather and the thin cotton wrapped around his waist to hold him together. Two fingers feels tremendous, at least until she murmurs some genteel filth about how he’s opening up for her so nicely, and something unhinges deep in his belly and he moans and quakes in surrender.

Three fingers. His dick is aching hard, trapped between his belly and the desk. There’s a little puddle of drool on the varnish. He’s floating, making some steady stream of noise he barely recognizes.

Something dripping-slick and hard, a little cold, and for a moment the stretch burns and he wails into his gag, utterly unmanned, and then it settles, lodged inside him. Her next ass-slap jolts him around it, and he’s not sure he’s ever going to stop making stupid noises again.

“Do you like that?”

 _Clack clack clack_.

“Good boy.”

 _Never_ going to stop making stupid noises.

He lolls there on her desk for—a time, it’s not like it has meaning anymore—maybe she’s wiping her hands, he isn’t sure. Swish of her nightgown against his stockinged thighs. Those steel-strong little hands wandering again, possessive. Gathering up his balls where they hang down, utterly exposed, and he shakes, caught by the root. “I think,” she murmurs, giving just the gentlest of squeezes. “Yes. These have a much more delightful use, don’t they?”

He makes a garbled noise, not sure what she means, not sure how to answer. Anything’s better than making crest babies, yeah?

“Ah, my apologies. That was rhetorical. They _do_ have a more delightful use, I think.” Something tightens, and he realizes, slow and a little terrified, that she’s tying them up. “Do signal if it’s too tight. I’ve done this before, but only to Hubert, and he has a rather terrifying pain tolerance.”

Sylvain makes some garbled squeak, laughing through his mad horny humiliated haze, because, well, Hubert’s balls are a thought he’s never had before. Edelgard smacks him gently on the ass. “That should hardly be news.” A little tug or two as she works. “Is it tight enough to be particularly painful?”

He shakes his head, which turns the clacking into some hiccuping rhythm. Not…painful, not really, even if it’s making his entire hindbrain scream because, well, got by the balls and all. Just a deep full ache. It would be harder to come, he thinks—it’s not like he hasn’t yanked himself back that way, more than once, trying to save it to come all over a girl’s back instead of inside—

She tugs. It must be a string, he thinks. Dangling. He backs his hips up a little without even thinking, so easily led.

There’s a soft click, and he doesn’t even know what to make of the noise, except something’s tugging. Steady. Just the gentlest weight, hanging right off his balls.

“There,” Edelgard says fondly. “Doesn’t that feel interesting?”

_Clack clack clack._

A spank. He jolts around his plug. The weight on his balls sways. He feels like the first time he tried wyvern-flight, and the beast coiled under him, restless with its potato-sack never-flown-before baggage, and dropped into a dive, thirty feet in free-fall like it was nothing. She spanks him until his ass is tingling, then tugs at the hem of his skirt like she could pretend it would cover her handiwork.

“Up. Stand and turn around.”

He tries, reflexively obedient, and then has to stop and shake with the sensation of moving around the plug, moving with that weight swinging. It makes him cautious, coltish, and he can’t meet Edelgard’s eyes as he turns, bracing himself a little against the desk. He can barely even open his eyes at all. Her cool hand on his burning cheek, and he sags into it. “So lovely,” she murmurs. She can’t keep her hands off him, and it makes him giddy with how _good_ it feels—she’s rucking down ruffles so she can get to his nipples, pinching and twisting them until his legs shake—

Something else pinches one nipple, hard. By the time he manages to get his eyes open, Edelgard’s clamping the other one—wicked dark pincers on a chain that drops between them, over the frilly neckline that’s dragged down just under his nipples. “There,” she says brightly, playing with the chain. “All done up for me.”

He whines.

“I love this,” she says, and kisses feather-soft over the bite mark she’d left on his collarbone. “You’re shaking with every breath. Your face is on fire. You’re so desperate that you’ve a wet spot on your skirt—”

Sylvain makes a strangled noise, and her hand falls down to graze over the tip of his aching-hard dick, and then he can feel it, the little smear.

“—and I’m just going to keep playing with you and making it worse because it’s _fun_ , and you’ll let me because—well, _do_ you like this?”

He freezes, some last snarling shred of _something_ holding back his nod. The phantom on the carpet, probably, clutching at his stockinged ankles.

She picks up a little black disk, and he stares at it in bewilderment until she holds it up to the chain between his nipples and he hears that click again. Gentle weight drags at his nipples. Magnets, he thinks, dim and far away. Strong magnets. She probably has more of them. Four fucking saints.

She pulls him down by his leash to kiss his cheek between the straps. Then his forehead. So tender.

“Do you like this?” she murmurs, soft against his face, and cradles his cock through his skirt in one world-shattering hand.

Finally, wretchedly, dragging himself free, he nods.

* * *

The harness on Sylvain’s head is red, matching his collar and cuffs.

He knows this now because if he looks a little to one side, he can see the full-length mirror near Edelgard’s wardrobe, and there he is, shaking. It’s like he’s stuck in a loop—can barely look at himself, ducks his head away with a wretched noise, but then can’t look away for a long, but then can barely look at himself.

He’s crawled on her leash into her bedroom, weights swinging with every movement, moaning into his gag. He’s helped her out of her dressing gown at her order, brushed her hair, watched her relax even more as she chattered idly, even laugh as she toyed with the ruffles on his dress, as she talked about her day, about the latest word from Petra and Dorothea riling up Ferdinand. He’s discovered that the plug inside him expands, unfurling like a flower and stretching him open with a twist to the base.

Now he’s standing at the foot of her vast four-poster bed, arms spread wide and cuffed to the heavy wood posts. She’s twisted the plug wider, wide enough that it almost hurts, which is almost a relief—he doesn’t want to drop it, that would be embarrassing. More magnets, until the weights dragging on his nipples and balls are an endless wall of sensation, inescapable, dragging him into a quivering haze.

The Emperor of Adrestia is lounging in her nightie, hair in two long braids for sleeping, so unwound that she doesn’t even notice that Sylvain has a lovely view down her décolletage—the disturbingly crisp surgical scars, the tops of her pert little breasts. The Emperor of Adrestia is eating candy in bed with a cat cozied against one leg, reading aloud bits of a chapbook of dirty doggerel that L’Arnault gave her as a joke, and occasionally playing with herself. And with the former Margrave-Prospect Gautier’s dick.

Sylvain isn’t entirely sure _why_ she’s doing what she’s doing with him strung up like a maid-dressed ornament on her bedframe, but he’d do pretty much anything for her on a normal day, and _now_ , when she’s letting him see her like this, when she’s letting _herself_ be like this? When she’s snort-giggling at a terrible limerick and pushing his dick down with one finger so it bobs in time with the rhythm? Well, she’s pretty much perfect, and about the only thing that’s _actually_ frustrating is that he can’t smile back.

That and the endless sweet pain, and the little lances of red-hot humiliation that run through him every time he looks in the mirror. Maybe it’s getting easier every time? He can’t tell. Every time, his nipples are a bit redder. The sheen down his chin and chest, his own slow-dripping drool, spreads wider. The wet spot on his skirt oozes more. His hair sticks more to the bare spots of his temples as he sweats from the endless pull on his balls. He shakes. The flush spreads to his ears, down his neck. His breaths come fast, shallow, little twitches running through him.

He’s whimpering, pretty much ceaselessly. Edelgard fluffs the ruffle of his skirt. He shuffles his feet, gingerly, legs spread to take pressure off his balls. She wants him like this. That’s all that matters. He might still be in free-fall, except it feels more like flying.

Maybe she just needed a moment to eat candy.

She finishes the handful at her leisure, tosses her braids behind her, and smiles up at him, quicksilver and utterly free of the usual iron set of her jaw. He feels his eyes crinkle in answer.

“I _do_ want your face between my legs,” she says fondly, and he nods, earnest, then makes some wretched noise. She arches an eyebrow and snaps two more magnets onto his nipples in quick succession. A burning ache. “I’m very much looking forward that. But playing with you like this…mmm…” A tap of her finger sends the nipple weights swinging, and he groans and shakes, wrist cuffs rattling. “So lovely. Are you enjoying this?”

He doesn’t even hesitate this time. Just nods.

“Good,” she purrs. “Because so am I.” She taps her chin, ruminating, and then flop-rolls across the bed to pull something out of her nightstand—a pot of lotion, a bit of terrycloth. The bed does have a very nice coverlet. She just ate candy, of course she wouldn’t want to blow him. He makes some aimless moan—he’s so damn hard, he knows it won’t be easy to come, he wants to, but he doesn’t want this to end. Right, though, it won’t end, she’s going to ride his face. That’s okay, then. That’s okay.

She flips up his skirt and lotions him up and jerks him off slow and languid. He isn’t sure how long it lasts. _Long._ It doesn’t matter. Seiros’ balls, it doesn’t matter. She plays with the weights and the plug, and he jerks and moans and yells and sways in his cuffs, and he really is straight-up floating. He’s so far out of his head he barely knows who he is. He’s the guy she wants dolled up and squirming. That’s all. Nothing else matters. She pulls off the clamps, one on a time, and it’s fire and needles as the blood rushes back into his tormented nipples, and he’d beg her not to except he can’t, he’s voiceless and he doesn’t matter and all his straining to protect himself just makes his tack rattle and it’s glorious. Instead of his babbling, it’s just her talking, murmuring in girlish delight about how he’d _twitched_ when she hurt him.

He doesn’t even _think_ when he tips over the edge, pushed to his limit in spite of his tied-up balls. No double-check. No dirty talk. Utterly heedless, safe in her hands. He hasn’t come this carelessly since he was an eternally wanking teenager, and it’s spine-tinglingly, screamingly intense. Spasming. Vision blurring dark around the edges.

She cleans him up almost tenderly. He’s sagging in his bonds with the after-jizz haze. Something light and warm is spreading under his ribs, and it’s so new that it kind of scares him, except it feels so good. Weights lift off his balls, easing the strain, and then the rope loosens and he groans with relief. She cranks the plug back down to its starting size.

She rises up on her knees and strokes his hair and kisses his cheek above the edge of his gag.

The warmth starts climbing in his throat, dripping up his arms, down his legs. His eyes sting. He catches himself in the mirror for a bare moment and there’s something like wonder in them.

“Ssshh,” she murmurs, kissing one eyelid, and he makes some faint little noise. She works a buckle on his cheek, loosening the pressure over his mouth. “You did wonderfully.” He whines, legs his head sag.

Is he happy? Is _that_ what he’s feeling?

She undoes the buckle on the other cheek. The pane of leather over his mouth lifts, and he makes some raw noise as she pulls out the gag. There’s a mess of drool under there, and he just wiggles his tongue and doesn’t care.

“Do you remember your orders?” she murmurs, finger resting on his lips.

He nods.

“Unless—is there something you need to say?”

He lolls for a moment, wordless, and kisses her finger, and feels a smile pulling at his face. Something soft and strange and loopy.

 _Thank you_ he mouths, without giving it voice.

“Oh,” she says, very softly, and holds his face in both hands to kiss him, long and slow and sloppy. “Thank _you_. I…it has been pointed out to me that I don’t let myself indulge very often.” She boops his nose, almost too quick to notice, and it takes Sylvain a long muzzy moment to register that the _Emperor of Adrestia_ has just booped his nose. Then she reaches up and unhooks one cuff, and he sways, bracing himself against her bedframe. “Careful, my pretty one. But you need not stand.”

She unhooks the other, and he collapses to his knees with a ragged groan—it does interesting things with the plug and his sore balls. _My pretty one_. Macuil’s tits, he’s too far gone to care. He’s so far gone it’s _good_.

“Come around,” she says, gesturing airily. “You should find a pillow down there. Do get comfortable.”

He crawls, hazy, and finds his pillow, and by the time he’s settled, she’s scooted around to that edge and folded up her own skirt. Much longer. It billows around her thighs, and in the shadow of it, he sees her—flushed a deep pink, gleaming.

Her hand catches his chin and undoes the strap there, and he stretches and wiggles his jaw, and leans in to feast.

* * *

There are times when it’s a long, slow build to Edelgard’s first orgasm. This isn’t one of them. It sets his head spinning, how keyed up she is from playing with him like that. The first one is still slow to come, quivering, little whines behind her teeth as she pushes herself over the edge, grinding against his still-harnessed face.

She hasn’t ordered him to stop, and she’s also got two fistfuls of his hair, and he could _live_ down here if she wanted it.

The second follows on the first, gets an open-throated cry, and his mind is clear-white, no thought but her pleasure. The third, slow to build, almost catches her by surprise, leaves her legs kicking against his shoulders and her shout echoing around her bedchamber. The fourth and fifth roll in like waves—somewhere in there she’s gasped out an order for his fingers—breaking in growling moans, and he’s soaking and giddy. By the sixth, she’s straight-out shrieking, vibrating between his fingers and his tongue, clamping down crushing-tight on his knuckles. One more, she gasps, almost like she’s frightened, and the seventh—the seventh is like a seizure, full-body, aftershocks twitching through her for what feels like minutes as she gradually lets his fingers go.

She tugs him into the bed, wraps around him as she catches her breath. He holds her, basks in bliss, mindless.

Eventually she stirs. Undoes the rest of the harness on his head—it will want cleaning, he thinks dimly, or maybe she murmurs, he isn’t sure. Blots them both clean with a damp cloth, gives him cold sugary tea to drink, takes huge gulps himself. Fondles his face as he smiles up at her, loopy, feeling naked down to the roots of the soul he didn’t know he had.

“Thank you,” he breathes, when she gives him back his voice. “Thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you…”

“Oh,” she says, sounding almost startled. “Oh, dear one. Thank _you_. Let’s get that thing out of you, shall we? I hope you aren’t too sore?”

He shakes his head. Feels his breath go ragged as she spreads him out a little, slowly works out the plug to drop aside in a towel. It feels aching strange to be empty; it makes his legs shake. He’s exhausted. But it’s not bad. He’s—he’s still—so happy.

“You…should stay,” she murmurs after a long while, still wrapped around him. “If you don’t mind, that is. I admit that I may not be the best bedmate, I do have terrible nightmares at times.”

“So do I.” He feels like he’s looking at his old self from very far away. “It’s part of why I used to never spend the night. Fucking embarrassing.”

She plays with his hair, idle. “What about the rest?”

“Nobody I wanted to spend the night with.” He buries his face in her for a moment, smushed so tight into her shoulder he can barely breathe. “You’d really want me to…”

“I see I have yet to convince you that you are important to me,” she says, in some small quiet voice he’s never quite heard before, and stretches out to turn down the lamp. Not snuffing it, he notices. Better to have a little light in the darkness when one has nightmares. She folds up her coverlet over them both, light for the warm Adrestian nights. Her sheets are silky-fine. Her hand smooths over his chest. “Oh—shall I—you’re still wearing so much.”

Collar, cuffs, dress, stockings. He doesn’t feel like moving. And, he realizes as he flounders a little in the dim light, he doesn’t want to take them off yet. Like they’re some talisman against—against everything he’s running from—

“’S okay,” he fumbles. “Don’t think I’d mind waking up like this.”

She makes some very soft noise. His eyes are adjusting. The dim light softens her face, paints her pale skin and paler hair ruddy, makes her eyes some deep strange color he doesn’t want to look away from. She strokes his cheek, feather-light. There’s an ache building in his chest.

“Give me a name,” he blurts, and the ache bursts into something watery and a little helpless, and those eyes widen. “Please. I mean. A family name. If you want. It can be anything, I didn’t mean it like that, it’s just…Hubert said I could change my name if I wanted. Not be Gautier anymore.”

“Sylvain,” she whispers. “You’d allow me to…”

He reaches for her, a little fumbling, and his hand finds her side, firm-muscled and small under her ruffles. “Who better?”

She leans in to kiss his forehead. “Then…yes. Of course. Let me think on it. If I named you right now, I’d just name you after my cat.”

He laughs, soft and sincere. “I can think of worse things.”

She gives a very delicate snort. “I’m not going to name you Sylvain Lady Celestine von Pawsvelg.”

“…your cat is named Lady Celestine von Pawsvelg.”

Edelgard puffs out her cheeks and does something which looks like she _might_ be sticking her nose in the air and daring him to comment, except that it’s rather ruined when she’s sprawled in bed. “ _Yes_. And if anybody but Hubert ever learns this fact, I am never touching your penis again.”

He can’t help but laughing, outright, even as she tugs his ear. “That would make it pretty hard to use as a name, yeah.” She tugs harder. “Yes, I promise, your wrath is dire indeed, my Emperor—”

Her smile brightens and she tugs on his collar instead. “There you go.”

“Should I call you Emperor in bed? Is that a thing I should do?”

“Perhaps,” she says, thoughtful. “When I allow you to speak at all. You hardly seemed to mind giving me your voice.”

He feels himself flush. “Yeah, that was…amazing. All of it. My…my lance, my body, my voice…they’re yours. All yours.”

She kisses him, brief and fond, and stifles a yawn. “There you go. Yes. Mine. And I treasure them.” Another yawn escapes, unstifled. “Now go to sleep, Sir Sylvain von Pawsvelg.”

**Author's Note:**

> She does not, of course, name him that officially. Rather she names him after the enemy knight turned love interest from the Adventures of Lady Celestine, her favorite books when she was little.
> 
> I [tweet](https://twitter.com/letterblade).


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